The Season of Giving
by finnicko-loves-anniec
Summary: Or, five times a gift wasn't received and one time it was. Everlark, Odesta, Hayffie.
1. Haymitch

His escort glances down at his watch every few seconds and drums his fingers against his arm, but Haymitch pretends not to notice. Instead, he pushes his already-heavy cart into a new aisle, this one with shelves that tower over him full of soft pink and blue blankets. "This aisle only has items for nurseries. I don't think you'll find anything in here," says Cassius, and he starts to move towards the next one.

Haymitch, though, advances into the sea of pastels. His mother likes the color pink, and he's sure she'll like a blanket, even if it is intended for a nursery. They're just squares of cloth – how will anyone be able to tell they were originally meant for a baby? A couple items fall out of the cart when he tries to turn, and he packs the toy hovercraft and the huge box of candy back in among the others gifts. He has no idea how much he's spent, and, frankly, he doesn't care. Haymitch has put Mom, Cardew, and Bryony through far too much these last few weeks; they deserve to enjoy every parsine that comes with his victory.

Cassius rolls his eyes at the behavior of his new victor. "I think you've found quite enough."

This time, Haymitch allows himself to be led to the front. He feels almost embarrassed as the cashier rings up his items, the total quickly mounting higher and higher. "Would you like us to wrap these for you?" the woman asks. He nods. "Is there anything you'd like left out?"

"Well, I was going to wear the purple skirt out, but I suppose you can wrap all of it." The woman shrinks away as though bitten. He only intended it as a joke, but fine; he doesn't care whether or not she likes him.

He walks out of the store weighed down by armfuls of brightly colored bags. Usually, he refuses to smile for the photographers that have followed his every movement since he was allowed out of the hospital four days ago, but today he grins and winks, hoping that the images will make their way back to Twelve. Haymitch knows his family will be excited to see him even if he brings them nothing, but a part of him wants Cardew to stay up at night imagining what wonders his big brother is bringing back from the Capitol for him.

Of course, four days later when Haymitch arrives at the train station in Twelve, nobody is there waiting for him. So he lugs the armfuls of gifts to the Victor's Village himself, hoping that they've decided to celebrate there instead. A vase of white roses greets him at the front door, and though his mother, brother, and girlfriend almost seem to smile at him, he knows that the three corpses seated at his dining room table no longer have any use for his gifts.

.oOo.

A/N: Written for April for the Caesar's Palace snowball fight and using the prompt _flesh._


	2. Finnick

Finnick Odair does not read etiquette books. He doesn't have to; he was born with enough natural charm that he can breeze through any situation without offending anyone, no matter how flagrantly he disregards society's rules. Being the Most Beautiful Man in Panem certainly helps.

But there are exceptions, and one of them finds him tucked away in the corner of the Capitol's largest bookstore flipping through _Aelia Streely's Guide to Giving._ He's too large for his hiding spot, and his knees almost touch his chest as he sits and reads, but Finnick doesn't care. He won't allow the paparazzi to catch him looking through this particular book, and they won't find him here. That's enough for him.

Finishing one page, he flips on to the next. Apparently, it is considered impolite to purchase a wig for a woman if not married to her, and even then, one should proceed with caution. He quickly moves on to the next section. Annie doesn't really seem like a wig kind of girl.

Forty minutes later, he's turned down each and every one of the book's ideas. Most are too frivolous – Annie doesn't need candlesticks with gems on them or a jacket with ruby buttons. Others are too intimate. Some are just plain stupid.

_Well, what were you expecting? They don't have chapters on what to buy for child murderer prostitutes that are too afraid to talk to someone they mentored through a fight to the death who might be the love of their life. That title wouldn't fit on the page very well, now would it?_

Finally ready to admit defeat, he wriggles his way out of the corner and sets the book back in its place on the shelf. Finnick grins at the cameras as he leaves for his next appointment. He knows he shouldn't, but that night, he dreams that it is Annie that lies beneath him.

.oOo.

The rock makes a satisfying splash as it hits the water. He picks up another one, barely glancing at it before tossing it into the waves as well. _Oh. _Finnick rolls up his pants and kicks off his sandals before wading into the area where the rock landed. After a few muttered curses, a very wet shirt, and several minutes of looking, he finally finds it. He smiles as he turns it over in his hand. Though it once must have been part of a green bottle, the waves have dulled its sharp edges and muted its colors. _Perfect. _He tucks the piece of sea glass into his pocket for later.

With a quick shine, he and the glass are ready. Finnick takes a deep breath and checks his appearance in the mirror once more before he sets out. As he nears her door, he realizes just how not ready he is for this moment. His breath comes in shallow pants and his heart races. Her present grows sweaty and warm tucked inside his fist. Still, he forces himself to ring the doorbell.

The knob turns, and he can just make out a mess of dark hair. Then, his stomach heaves. Terrified, he sprints away from the door, running away from her, away from himself, away from _everything. _He only stops once he reaches the beach, where there's nowhere left to run. Finnick can't escape himself, but he can sit and cry, not realizing that he dropped his little piece of sea glass somewhere along his path.

The Capitol's Finnick can navigate the most complex situations, but the one they've broken sobs, wishing he knew how to handle the only one that's important to him.

.oOo.

**A/N:** Written for Johanna in the C/P snowball fight using the prompt _sea glass._


	3. Effie

She checks once more to be sure that she has everything before shutting and locking the cupboard door. Her legs ache as she forces herself up from her crouching position, but Effie barely notices. There are far too many other things to worry about now.

Yes, the Gamemakers have said there can be two, but Effie worries they will change their minds. The Hunger Games are entertainment, and what could fascinate a nation more than two lovers forced to choose which of them will live? And that's assuming they live through the next few hours – Two is strong as usual, and he loves to kill. She tries not to picture what Katniss or Peeta would look like with their backs broken like the poor Three boy.

But most of all, Effie doesn't want to think about what their deaths will do to Haymitch. Since the Reaping, he has been more alive than she's ever seen him. He laughs, he smiles, and, most importantly, he's almost completely laid off the drink. Some days, she can almost glimpse the boy she remembers emerging victorious from the Quarter Quell. And more than anything, Effie doesn't want to see that boy die. She helps the Gamemakers kill two children every year; she won't let them claim a third.

Effie has known Haymitch Abernathy long enough to know what'll happen: first, he'll rage, then he'll drown his anger with the vodka that the Capitol so kindly provides its mentors. But pouring alcohol over a fire does nothing to calm its flames. Effie fears that it will engulf Haymitch and leave nothing but a burnt shell of a man. The water and hangover pills she has tucked away in a drawer can help with headache and upset stomach tomorrow, and maybe the little pink pills can save his liver, but nothing she has will do anything for his soul.

She has abandoned her sky-high heels when she walks back into District Twelve's lounge. Haymitch sits on the couch, elbows resting against his knees as he watches the television. Effie moves to sit next to him. "How are they doing?" she asks, afraid to know the answer.

"They're alive."

"Are they going to stay that way?"

For the first time, he looks away from the screen. "I sure hope so."

Effie lets him leave it at that. They watch together as Katniss sends an arrow through Two's hand and the horrible dog mutts drag him away screaming. "They won't let those kill him. Katniss'd better be ready. Then, we'll see what Gamemakers' promises are really good for." He unscrews the flask that has so far sat untouched beside him, and she ruins her perfect pink manicure as she watches and picks and bites.

The swish of an arrow. The boom of a cannon. Two is dead before he hits the ground. Caesar's voice echoes through the arena, and everything is wrong.

But Katniss, clever girl that she is, has a solution. A few berries is all it takes, and Effie finally has her victor. No, two victors. She jumps up in excitement, screaming something undecipherable except for the joy beneath it. Haymitch looks dazed, as though he can't believe what he just saw. Effie flings herself onto him, wrapping him in a too-tight hug.

He stiffens, and she wonders for an instant if she's done something wrong, but then Haymitch returns the embrace. Though there's liquor on his breath and his scruff scratches against her cheek, she leans in closer, enjoying this moment for everything it's worth. For the first time, they've won, and it's divine. Her gifts remain in the locked drawer, forgotten.

.oOo.

**A/N:** Written for Lils in the C/P snowball fight and using the prompt _divine._


	4. Cinna

The pearls, the feathers, the lace around the neckline – it was all too much. Distasteful. Tacky. They'd love it.

Cinna collapsed into his chair and rubbed his eyes with his hands. He looked over his creation, trying to find something, _anything_, redeemable in it. Every element by itself was gorgeous. The jewels shone with their own inner fire, the silk was smooth against his fingers, the lace felt so delicate that it could have been spun by spiders. Still, he found the basic concept too revolting to look past.

He sagged back in the chair, defeated. He couldn't do any more on this tonight, he just couldn't. Yes, the photo shoot was in nine days, and, yes, he really should be further along on these than he was, but these were just so uninspiring.

Against his better judgment, Cinna found himself reaching for his sketchbook. He shouldn't be doing this. There was too much work to do. Still, he popped the cap of a pen with his teeth and started drawing.

At first, his lines were stiff, forced. He didn't know what he wanted to create, and it showed. But slowly, an idea unfolded on the paper. With a line here and a curve there, a new design emerged. Katniss wouldn't want anything too constricting – she'd never choose for herself the tight corsets, high heels, and heavy beading of his other designs. This one, though, was different. Made from the same silk and lace as the gown before him, it would cling to her chest and waist before flaring out at her hips, ending just above the ground. Perfectly reasonable heels would give her some much-needed extra height while still allowing her to walk. Gorgeous but livable. Despite what some in the Capitol would say, breathing and beauty didn't have to be mutually exclusive.

A smile twitched at his lips. Perfect. Just the right amount.

Still, it wouldn't be enough. The Capitol would hate it. A part of him couldn't blame them; it wouldn't suit the extravagant wedding that Katniss and Peeta would have at all.

So, Cinna added a note to the top of the page:

_For when it's real._

.oOo.

When it was real, Katniss wore a yellow dress with her father's worn boots underneath. She couldn't decide what to wear, and Peeta and Haymitch hadn't been any help. Peeta said that she'd look beautiful in anything. Haymitch would merely uncork another bottle of liquor and act as though he hadn't heard her.

What could have helped her was a slim sheet of paper that a man had carefully slipped into his treasured ideas notebook years before. But the Capitol had other ideas. When they'd cleared the man's apartment, the Peacekeepers had added their own note to it:

TREASONOUS MATERIALS. INCINERATE.

.oOo.

**A/N:** Written for Zero in the Snowball Fight using the prompt silk.


	5. Peeta

He mixes the paints together on his palette, swirling them into brilliant shades of green, gold, and bronze before dabbing them onto the canvas. Peeta steps back for a second to admire his progress. He has the basic shape of both figures completed and has filled in most of the details of Annie's face, but he's still far from done. The baby will be harder - he'll have to leave that for tomorrow. Peeta looks over at the room's only other occupant. "What do you think?" he asks.

The woman sets down the rope she's been knotting for the last few hours and looks up at his painting. "It's beautiful."

He blushes and stutters through his next words, embarrassed by her praise. "What do you think I should do with the background? Should I keep it the same, or maybe change it to a beach or a boat or something?"

"Pass me the photo," Katniss demands.

He tosses her the little framed photo of a green-eyed baby boy and his mother. Katniss looks at it for a moment, her lips pursed, before shaking her head. "No, I like it the way it is. They look happy where they're at. No reason to change it."

"If you say so," he cracks each of his knuckles in turn before he picks up his palette again. "I think I'm going to try and finish up Annie tonight. Want to stick around?"

She doesn't even look up at the clock before answering. "Of course."

Peeta smiles. He never thought he would end up this lucky. Even if he and Katniss don't have the romantic relationship that the old Peeta always dreamed of, they are friends, and for now, that's enough. He is surprised she's willing to be anywhere near him after what he's almost done. The thought of his hands latching onto Katniss's throat and squeezing the life from her make his stomach quiver. He can't go back to being that monster.

But that Peeta is never far away. He can always feel it, lingering at the edges of his mind, waiting for an instant's weakness to pounce. And sometimes, the beast finds that opportunity. It pushes away the real Peeta and replaces him with something terrible. The last time that Peeta chose to strike, he had awoken four days later in Twelve's new hospital with a morphling drip in his arm and no recollection of what he'd done. Haymitch still wouldn't tell him what kind of damage he'd caused during the episode. Peeta still isn't sure he wants to know.

Even when that Peeta is safely kept on the outskirts of his mind, he can whisper. And he does, terrible things that Peeta doesn't want to believe he's capable of thinking. Usually, painting is enough to keep the demon away. Unfortunately, usually is not today.

_Finnick didn't want you near her. You're trying to steal them away from him. His, not yours. You don't deserve anything like them. You never will. _"Be quiet," he mutters. Across the room, Katniss looks up from her rope. "Sorry, I didn't mean you."

_You don't' want to listen to me because I'm telling the truth. You're nothing. Worse than nothing. And there is nothing that can ever change that. No pretty picture, no flower, no cake or cookie, nothing._

_ She'll hate it, just like she hates you._

And in that moment, he is willing to do anything to stop the voice. With a scream, Peeta smashes his palette, still loaded with paint, against the canvas. There's a satisfying bang, but it's nowhere near enough to calm the monster inside him. He slides them against each other, and when he lets go, the palette sticks to what once was a painting of Annie and Ronan Odair.

He breathes and steps away from the easel to see Katniss watching him, concerned. Still, she hasn't moved, so it must not have been one of his really bad ones. Peeta has long since learned to be grateful for the little things in life.

"Are you all right?" she asks.

He nods, but his jaw trembles. "Yeah, I'm fine." Nothing could be farther from the truth, but there's no time to worry about that right now, when there is paint to be cleaned up and new gifts to be found.

.oOo.

**A/N:** Written for Onyx in the Caesar's Palace Snowball Fight using the prompt 'bang.'


	6. Annie

The hills are green now, and the trees still have the leaves that they will lose with the summer drought. Flowers blossom anywhere they can find enough dirt to grow. Life surrounds her on this warm spring day, but Annie Cresta cannot admire the beauty of the world around her. Not today. Maybe not ever again.

It isn't supposed to happen this way. No, she and Finnick are supposed to be together for this moment. Things like this aren't supposed to happen until she's ready, but that's never stopped life before.

He always wanted to be a father. She remembers a class project in elementary school where their teacher had asked them each to write a couple sentences and draw a picture of what they wanted to be when they grew up. Despite Ms. McCaully's protests, Finnick had refused to add fisherman, ship captain, or even victor to his sheet. He was going to be a daddy, he had decided, and nothing else.

But until now, he hadn't been. She chokes as she thinks of little Ronan and the life he should have had. Finnick would have loved him just as she did, and they could have been so happy with the gift of love that the rebellion had allowed them.

Perhaps happiness is nothing more than a dream for the foolish. She now gives Finnick everything he ever wanted, but he is not here to enjoy it. She has lost everything that ever mattered.

Tears run down her face as Annie traces the letters of the tombstone one last time.

_Finnick Odair_

_483-507_

_Ronan Odair_

_507-513_

A part of her wants to stay with them forever, to have District Four's stonemason add another name to the headstone as she climbs into the ground next to them. But the world has told her to be strong, so she forces herself to leave her husband and child. Ronan is with Finnick now. Perhaps he can take better care of their little boy than she did.

.oOo.

**A/N:** This concludes _The Season of Giving_. Thank you so much for reading! Also, if it's any comfort, this isn't my headcanon for Annie and her baby.

Written for Johanna using the Caesar's Palace prompt verdant.


End file.
